The Secret Life of Bees
by S. Faith
Summary: Amazing what tangents a single answerphone message can send a man's mind off on.  Movie universe, mostly.


**The Secret Life of Bees**

By S. Faith, © 2007

Words: 16,137

Rating: M / R

Summary: Amazing what tangents a single answerphone message can send a man's mind off on.

Disclaimer: Helen Fielding owns the characters, and I would never pretend otherwise. However, I own the words and the story.

Notes: A great big thank you once again to the fabulous Carly. I don't know what I would do without your outstanding plotbunnies, our brainstorming in chat, or your friendship. :)

* * *

"Turn 'round. Let me get your back." 

She did as told.

Brushing the soapy cloth up and down her back, the water pounding into her chest, he realised doting on her would never get old. His bare hands ran over her shoulders, down her back, over her hips and around her waist. He leaned in close, spoke close to her ear. "Have to make sure you're nice and clean, of course."

"Of course," she echoed, the smile evident in her voice. "You do realise that the soap is gone. All rinsed away. And you've lost the washcloth."

"Astute observation," he said, running his hands up over her arms.

She rested her head back on his shoulder. He reached for the soap, lathered up again, and proceeded to slip his soapy palms over her front, turning her slightly out of the stream of water. His palms came up to make lathery circles on her breasts.

"You've already washed those bits," she informed him.

"You know how thorough I am about these things," he murmured.

His soapy fingers slipped across her abdomen, paying particular attention to her navel before drifting down. She sighed. He was very thorough, indeed.

………

Mark had slipped out to allow her to finish rinsing her hair, was now in the hallway of the flat, rubbing a towel into the dark ringlets of his damp hair before tucking it firmly about his waist, thinking with some amusement that with Bridget, even something as mundane as a shower became high adventure. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of small glasses, dropped a couple of ice cubes into each of them, then poured Bailey's over the ice and took them over to the sofa.

She emerged momentarily with a towel similarly tucked around her chest and her hair twisted up into another; she was flushed pink from the hot water and his methodical attention to her cleanliness. She smiled, took one of the glasses from him as she sat across his lap at his invitation.

He pushed the towel from her hair, sending her wet locks messily about her face. "Mark," she scolded, combing her hair away from her face impatiently.

"No, don't," he said, placing his free hand over hers. "I like when you're all freshly scrubbed and disheveled. It's very sexy." He drew a sip from his glass.

She pursed her lips in disbelief, but ceased fussing with her hair, leaned against him and sipped her own drink.

"It's good to be here with you," he said, planting a kiss into her hair. He could say it a million times and it would always be true. How close he had come to losing the opportunity to ever say it again, between a pointless split and the spectre of jail time in a foreign prison… but she was here now, curled in his embrace, and he was content.

Her reply was to draw her fingers over his bare chest, around to his waist, and hold herself close to him.

The telephone chose that moment to inconveniently ring.

"Leave it," murmured Mark, holding her firmly to him. "That's what the answerphone is for."

"Very wise," she said, which surprised him; she had a rather Pavlovian response to the telephone ringing, was usually running for it even when he was there with her.

The outgoing recording clicked off, and what Mark heard next perplexed him:

"Bzzzzzzz?" Then a pause. "You there, Bee?"

He felt Bridget stiffen beneath his embrace, and then suddenly she was attempting to scramble to her feet. He held her fast, far too curious about her reaction to this call to allow her to answer it.

The voice on the answerphone sighed. "Call me back when you get this. Life's been a mess without you." Another pause. "Marry me?"

The line then disconnected.

Mark felt an unfamiliar wave of emotion wash through him, one he didn't like nor was proud of. "Who was that?" he asked stiffly, loosening his grip about her waist.

She pushed herself off of his lap, her hand fixing on where the towel was tucked into itself. "That was… no one."

He rose to his feet, striding away from the sofa to think before turning back to her. "So do you regularly get random calls from strangers in which they propose marriage to you?" He met her gaze with his own. "Tell me who that was, Bridget," he said darkly.

She looked away. "It isn't that important."

"Hearing a man's voice propose marriage to my fiancée is pretty bloody important to me."

Quietly she said, "It's Waspy."

"Waspy? What kind of name—"

"Er. Peter."

"And who the bloody hell is Peter?" he asked, though he had a pretty good idea already.

"An ex-boyfriend."

"I see. How long ago an ex?"

"_Years_ ago."

"Your first boyfriend?"

She laughed. "Of course not. I was twenty-two!"

He bristled. What on earth was that supposed to mean?

Gruffly, he asked, "And how long were you together?" He realised he had begun to pace while firing his questions at her, and his towel had begun to come loose. He fixed it mid-stride.

"Um," she said, looking down. "Seven years."

He stopped dead in his tracks. "_Seven_ _years?_" he exploded.

She looked sheepish. "Well, the last year and a half didn't _really_ count."

Mentally he did the math. "Are you saying… seven years in total, or a quarter of your entire life?"

If she could have burrowed into the sofa, she would have. "Um. The second one."

"Eight and a half years, Bridget? Do you think you might have mentioned this to me sooner?"

"This is exactly why I didn't. I knew you'd be angry."

"I'm not angry. I just don't like surprises like this." He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself. He didn't like feeling like a jealous boyfriend, but sometimes his patience was sorely tried. "I also didn't think we had any secrets."

"Mark, it's not like I'm seeing him on the sly or something," she said, zinging him in his sore spot. His expression must have changed appropriately, for she said in a softer tone, "Sorry. I mean he's only a part of my past. He gets… a little on the drunk side, calls and begs me to marry him when he's unhappy with his current girlfriend or is lonely. I haven't heard from him, haven't thought about him in ages. Come and sit down again."

Hackles raised still, he did as she asked, and she made to take his hand; instead he brushed it aside and invited her to sit across his lap again.

With his hand gently patting the damp towel covering her backside, he asked, "So why did you leave him?"

He watched as she turned bright red from forehead to the top of her towel.

Perplexed, he asked again, "Why, Bridget?"

"I, um, don't remember."

He scoffed. "That's preposterous."

"I don't," she insisted. "It was very meaningful and heartfelt at the time I'm sure, but I don't honestly remember. Besides." She leaned forward, which released the towel from where it had been neatly tucked into itself around her chest, then raised her hand and proceeded to draw her nails down his temple, over his sideburn, along his jaw and around to the nape of his neck. It was a very effective diversionary tactic, and she full well knew it. "I never said 'yes' when _he_ asked me."

As she brought her lips to his, he reasoned it would be wise to let the matter drop for the time being.

………

Despite a lovely evening alone and undisturbed by further answerphone interruptions, Mark tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. Mark hadn't dared to bring up the topic of Waspy again that same night for fear of seeming like an obsessive freak about it. Truth be told though he couldn't get it out of his mind: a boyfriend with whom she shared a cutesy pet name, had been with steadily for seven years and had hung on with trying to make things work on and off for an additional year and a half… and she hadn't seen fit to mention his existence. That seemed like a pretty big thing to leave out, and he was curious why.

As he turned the key in the door to her flat, mentally preparing exactly what he was going to say to her about this egregious lack of disclosure, he called out her name. The resounding silence attested that she was not there. It was a rare evening when he was home before she was.

He went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine, noticed a handwritten note tented on the counter. He smiled. Of course she knew he would head straight for a glass of wine. He picked up the paper and read it:

_Mark,_

_I forgot to tell you before you left this morning that I'll be working in the editing room until 7 at least. If you'd order some takeaway or something for dinner, I would love you forever. (Well. Even more.)_

_Love,_

_B._

As he read, he wondered idly why she didn't have a pet name for him.

He shook his head. _Stop being ridiculous._

He set the paper down, took a sip of wine, when his eyes were drawn to the wall full of framed pictures across the flat, a straight shot from his position in the kitchen. He furrowed his brow, a thought poking at the back of his brain. He followed that straight line through the dining area and to the pictures. He looked more closely at them than he ever had. One was a framed photo of Bridget and Sharon, much younger, holding up glasses of beer and grinning broadly, clearly pissed out of their minds. He looked to another. Tom and another two men he didn't recognise, grinning, obviously hamming it up for the camera. Yet another was of Jude and Sharon from a recent Christmas party, looking very atypically sweet and innocent.

There were many more, too many to enumerate, and he realised: photos. She would have to have photos, pictorial evidence of this relationship.

As if a man possessed he headed into her bedroom, and fixed his gaze to the top shelf above her wardrobe. It was crammed with small lidded storage boxes that were labeled with meaningful phrases. "Wedding M&J / own flat first day" read one. "Jude party big promotion / pics from Tom in Ibiza" said another. And then he saw it, something he'd been looking at for months but hadn't really seen: "Mum/Dad Pearl Anniv. / Holiday w/ Waspy, Yorkshire."

He pulled down the box, sat on the bed with it. Inside, unsurprisingly, was a jumble of loose photographs as well as a notebook, which he set to the side. He recognised her mother and father, Una and Geoffrey, hell, even his own parents in the photos, which were mixed with shots of the countryside, a sweet little Cotswold cottage, and… that's when he found it: a photo of a twenty-something Bridget sitting in a young man's embrace, she laughing and playfully turning away from him as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

As best as could be determined by the photo in profile, the man—this Waspy—had medium-toned Caucasian skin, blondish-brown hair cropped short, a slightly bulbous nose, and long arms, though it could have just been the man had more of a thin, lanky build than Mark did. It was impossible to tell what colour his eyes were from that particular angle and aspect.

Instinctively he turned it over, immediately wished he hadn't, because written on the back alongside the year was:

_Bee __♥__ Waspy, five years strong!!! XOXOXO_

He didn't know why it should affect him as much as it did. While he knew he wasn't her first boyfriend by a long shot, perhaps he had never really considered that he might not have been her first real relationship in the same way she was his.

He heard movement in the front room. Suddenly he felt pretty ridiculous pawing through her photos and he certainly didn't want her to see him doing it. Hurriedly he put the photos back in the box, slapped the lid back on, and put it back into place.

He strode out into the flat, an apology on the tip of his tongue for not having acquired dinner yet. He'd reached the kitchen when he realised he was not at all face to face with his lovely Bridget.

Instead he was face to face with a bouquet of daisies, a bottle of Chardonnay, and the man trying to snog his lovely Bridget in the photo he'd just found.

He was about as tall as Mark, and in fact lankier than him. His fine-textured, wavy blondish brown hair had grown long enough on top to hang down into his very wide eyes, which, Mark realised, were a sort of green. _And_, thought Mark, _he has dreadfully cheap tastes in flowers._

"Who are you?" Waspy had the temerity to ask.

"How did you get in?" Mark asked calmly.

"I have a key."

Mark felt his lips draw into a rigid line. _So like Bridget not to have asked for the key back_, he thought angrily.

"So who _are_ you?" Waspy continued in a dangerous tone. "Where's Bee, and how did _you_ get in?"

"'Bee' is not here." Mark's voice was controlled fury. "I have a key as well, and, seeing as I am 'Bee's' fiancé, I'd like the one you have back, thank you." Mark held out his hand.

"Oh," he said, his face suddenly pale, sounding as if he'd just had the wind knocked out of him. "I had no idea. Sorry."

Mark nodded once, his anger dissipating; there's really no way he could have known. Waspy dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key, handing it over to Mark.

"Tell her I stopped by to say hello—I won't bother her by ringing anymore. Wish you all the best. I hope you know how lucky a fellow you are." He set the flowers and the wine down on the writing table, offered a half-hearted smile before retreating down the stairs.

He stood there for a few minutes more before he remembered the notebook he had forgotten to put back into the box with the photos. He stuffed the second key into his trouser pocket then went back to the bedroom. The notebook had landed on the floor in his haste to greet Bridget, and had opened half way through. He didn't want to read it, but as he picked it up his eyes fell onto the page and he couldn't help himself.

_15 June_

_2 am. Cottage in Cotswolds._

_Holiday coming to an end. V. lovely time. Can hardly believe been five years together. Best time of life. V. full of happiness and love. Waspy v. naughty, though; dragged self down in middle of night to shag right there in the open field under the moonlight. Would be horrified to think was seen… mmm, though. Stinger's aim just as true as ever._ _Ding-_dong!

Just as Mark slapped it shut, feeling a dizzying mixture of emotions, he heard Bridget's voice calling out to him. She must have just missed Was—_Peter, dammit_, he thought;_ I am not calling Bridget's ex by a pet name_—and come in without him hearing.

He stuffed the notebook on top of the box then came out of the back area of the flat to see the daisies pressed up to her smiling face, her eyes closed as she took a deep breath in. "Oh, Mark, how sweet—daisies, my favourite! And oh, the very best kind of Chardonnay—what would I do without you?" she said delightedly, veritably beaming as she looked to him.

"I, uh, just came in and was about to get some takeaway," he said, deftly neither confirming nor denying the provenance of the flowers and the wine. "What are you in the mood for?"

She set the flowers down, went over to him, and pulled him down into a passionate kiss. "That should answer your question," she said, her breath warm on his cheek.

His first mistake was that he hesitated.

She pulled back, furrowing her brows. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter."

She pursed her lips. "Is this still about Waspy?"

His second mistake was the vehemence of his denial:

"_Of course not!_"

She blinked, taken aback; she obviously didn't believe him. He wouldn't have either, in her place. "Did he call again? Or did he—? Mark. Tell me you bought those." She pointed at the flowers and the wine accusingly. She narrowed her eyes, glancing towards her bedroom. "What were you doing before I got home?"

He opted to say nothing in response to her questions. His third mistake.

Her eyes darted back and forth as if reading his features like a book. Suddenly she bounded past him and into the bedroom; he was hot on her heels. She headed directly for her closet, glanced up, saw the notebook out of its box—all as if she'd pulled the thought from his head. She reached up, drew down the notebook, and turned to him.

"I may be sloppy and disorganised," she said angrily, "but there is a method to my madness, and I would _not_ have left this out of its box." She released a breath. "I can't _believe_ you, not telling me that Waspy came by! Going through my photos! Reading my old diary!" Her eyes were filling with tears but she was determined to ignore them.

"Bridget, I—"

She held up her hand, looking away from him. He stopped talking at once; he knew he was in the wrong. "No, wait, don't tell me. You would never stoop so low as to violate my privacy," she said bitterly, lowering her hand. "Mark, go home. I'll call you when I'm not steaming mad any more."

"Bridget," he began again.

"_Go!_" she shouted, turning away and bringing her fingers to her eyes, most assuredly to wipe her tears away.

He knew he was pressing his luck, but he did not want to leave her this angry. He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind. At first she struggled to get away. He instead held firm and spoke softly to her; as she listened to his words she began to calm down.

"I'm sorry. I saw the box labeled W—with his name on it and curiosity got the better of me. I didn't know there was a diary in there, had no intention of reading it; I set it aside to look through the photos. When I heard movement in the front room I put the photos away and in my haste to see who I thought was you, the diary fell to the ground. When Peter left I came back in to put it away and it was open. I'm sorry," he reiterated, kissing the top of her head. "It fell open to a page and I could not help but see it. That's when you came in."

Her hands raised up to touch his forearms.

"I just want to know a little bit more about such a major relationship in your life. Eight and a half years, Bridget—that's a long time."

She turned her head, looking appropriately indignant. "What about you and your ex-wife? You never talk about her—how long you'd known her before you married, how long you'd been together—and I don't pester you about it."

He sighed. She had a point. "Ask me anything," he said softly.

She turned around to face him, her eyes slightly puffy and red. "Really?"

He nodded.

"So how long had you known her?"

"We met when I was about thirty. We moved in the same professional circles."

"And when did you start seeing her, as, like, a girlfriend?"

He paused to think. "Almost thirty-three."

She drew her brows together. "And when did you get married?"

"About a year later."

Her gaze was unblinking. She already knew they'd only been married for two weeks when the unthinkable happened. "Mark," she asked tentatively, "what's the longest relationship you've had?"

"So far?" he asked. "That was it."

She looked at him with disbelief, mouth slightly agape. "You're serious. Not even a university sweetheart?"

"I was far too busy with my law studies to entertain a relationship."

"No girls at all?"

"I never said that," he said, his mouth reluctantly twisting up at the corner.

She smiled in return. It was a good sign.

"So you see my curiosity," he continued.

"You're a freak, you are," she joked. Even better sign.

"Ah, but I'm hoping it won't be the longest for much longer."

"Keep snooping through my diaries and you'll have to reset your little counter, mister," she said with a grin, embracing him, then kissing him.

As he returned her most-welcomed forgiveness with zeal, he was not proud of the obsessive thoughts multiplying in his brain: he wanted that old diary, wanted to find the entry about their breakup. Wanted to know why she'd chucked him.

"I told you I don't remember," she said; he was horrified to think he'd said that out loud. "If you ask me again I'll smother you with a pillow, I swear."

It was most unlike him to think such a thing, but he told himself if he did not find out, he'd do the deed himself.

"So what'd you say?" she asked, pulling back to look at him.

"What?"

"To Waspy?"

Mark briefly pursed his lips, really wishing she wouldn't call him that. "He came in with a key he still had that you'd given him. He looked pretty shocked to see a man in the place. I advised him you were now engaged. He apologised, gave me back the key and left, said he wouldn't bother you again."

"Oh, poor Waspy," she said mournfully.

"Poor _Waspy_?"

"Well, it must have been a big shock to him to find I wasn't available. I have a feeling I've always been his fallback position. He'd been engaged once himself but it didn't work out," she said matter-of-factly. She placed a hand on his face. "But you're right. I shouldn't forget poor Mark." She stroked his cheek with her thumb. "Dropping an almost eight-and-a-half year thing on you without warning… I expect it put you a little off kilter."

"Just a little," he said. "Any other deep dark secrets?"

"None that I can think of, unless you mean those years I spent running guns to the Sandinistas."

He chuckled, surprising himself. "Don't even kid about that. It's too close to work." He pulled her close, wrapping her within his arms, kissing the top of her head then resting his chin there. "I am sorry, Bridget," he said again in a very quiet voice; sorry for doing it in the first place, sorry for knowing that the quest was not yet over.

"I know," she replied; he felt her hands slide across the back of his cotton dress shirt then press into his back.

He thought about telling her how much he loved her, how much he needed her, how lost he would be without her… but something deep inside must have decided he'd had enough melodrama for one night, because instead of saying any of those things, he asked, "So about dinner?"

She stroked her fingers on his back. "I love you too," she said gently.

………

As a lawyer, Mark Darcy fixated on facts. This long-ingrained habit bled into his personal life, sometimes much to his dismay. He recollected the photos he'd found marked a five year anniversary. If he extrapolated forward based on the year notation on the corner of the photo, it gave him a pretty good timeframe to think about which year the breakup entries might start.

He hated himself for even thinking about planning such a thing.

The opportunity to strike came unexpectedly a couple of weeks later. When he arrived at her flat as he did nearly every night (and especially on Fridays), Bridget announced she was going to 192 to celebrate Shaz' birthday and did he want to come? He begged off, citing a headache (which was true after a long day in court), but promising to ditch the headache and make it up to her by waiting for her in her bed (also something he fully intended on seeing through).

As he laid on her bed trying to shake the headache (having previously been properly attended to with headache medicine and tender kisses), his eyes drifted to the closet, to where the boxed photos resided. _Don't do it, Darcy,_ said the angel on his right shoulder, and he turned over to face in the other direction.

_You have to know and now's your chance_, whispered the little green devil on his left shoulder.

He hopped up and went to the closet.

He was very careful about disassembling the structure and reassembling it absolutely pristinely on her floor. As the boxes dwindled down to none, it occurred to him that perhaps, during this less-than-happy time, there were few photos taken. He came to the final box… unmarked. He reached for it, heart sinking.

It turned out to be the mother lode. The box was filled with diaries. She had been right; she might have been a generally sloppy person, but she was very methodical about dating and organising her diaries.

He found the three for the years in question, began thumbing through them until finding what he believed was the pivotal day.

_2 August_

_9:30 pm. My flat._

_Need drink. Chucked Waspy tonight._

_Perhaps several. Good thing have brand new bottle of wine._

_9:35 pm._

_I mean, I can't stay with a man who has become a person we used to mock!_

_9:45 pm._

_If I had to go to one more dinner party with all of those bloody civil engineers—and if by 'civil' is meant 'boring beyond all sense', then yes, they are expert at engineering—I would have jumped off of the London Bridge. Ironic, really._

_9:47 pm._

_Never would have thought silly, fun ol' Waspy would turn into the fucking most boring person ever to exist._

_10:05 pm._

_BORING._

It went on in this manner for two pages, her verbiage, penmanship and spelling getting sloppier and sloppier as she became more and more pissed. He flipped back a few pages looking for indications that the breakup was coming. He found it.

_30 July_

_10 pm. My flat. Alone, of course._

_Home after night at Howard and Ruth's dinner party. Face hurts from smile plastered into place. Would have preferred to calculate number of blades of grass on Primrose Hill or gouge out own eyes with butter knives. Waspy, on other hand, had time of life with colleagues, with their inside maths references and stupid construction jokes._

_It's difficult, really difficult, to think you're found someone you fit with perfectly only to discover that it seems somewhere along the line their shape changed,_ they _changed, and they no longer fit into the hollows of you. It hurts more than a sudden break would, almost, because you start to wonder how it was you didn't notice sooner, if it's something that was always there but you were so blinded by love not to see it before, if everyone around you has been silently questioning your sanity for years._

_Seven, to be exact._

_I'm sure I haven't changed. Shaz says I haven't. But she says he hasn't either. So did I just used to think he was more interesting, more fun, more clever than he really was? How did I miss the signs that we were really so different?_

_Don't know what to do. Is it failing to give up now? What if this is it though? What if I give up on the only shot I get? But the scales have fallen from my eyes and I don't think I can go on with it as if they hadn't._

_So hard._

Gently he closed the diary, set it onto his lap, and looked away. The words struck terror in his very heart: it appeared to him that she'd simply grown bored of Peter.

He'd wanted to know, and he did whatever he could to find out. Now he could only think to himself, _Be careful what you wish for_.

But, he realised, there was another year and a half worth of drama, and he had to know how it finally ended. He picked up the next diary, started skimming the entry headers, and found what he was looking for early in the next year.

_14 February_

_6 pm. My flat._

_Odd. Was just contemplating first lonely, boyfriend-less Valentine's in seven years when came in from work to find tail end of ringing phone, then answerphone starting to go off. 'Bzzz,' said a man's voice. Waspy. 'Bee, if you're there, pick up.' He sounded kind of pathetic, to be honest, so I picked up the phone._

'_What is it?'_

'_Bee, I'm lost without you. Marry me.'_

_I couldn't help it. I laughed. And surprisingly, he laughed too._

'_Okay, okay. How about dinner, then? No stings attached.'_

_I groaned with the pun, then chuckled again. Had I merely misremembered the dullness that had settled in? This was more like the Waspy I'd first fallen in love with. I smiled, a warm genuine smile, free from bitterness and full of love (of the platonic sort) for him. No reason why we shouldn't be friends still. It'd been six months since I'd seen him, after seven years in his constant presence. Surely there was a basis for friendship amidst all of that._

'_Dinner would be great.'_

_So he'll be here in an hour to get me. Don't know where we'll go._

_15 February_

_On balcony of flat with cig. 1 am._

_Um. Have accidentally slept with Waspy._

_1:15 am._

_Hmm. Not actually so bad. Had great night, lots of laughing, shag as good as remembered. Is it wrong to consider getting back together with him?_

A few weeks later, he found the "off-again".

_9 March_

_10 am. My flat._

_Was fool to think anything would be any different. Have chucked Waspy again. For good. Then went out and got completely hammered last night with Jude._

_Hm. Was nice to have sex again though._

He closed the diary, and with some reluctance began thumbing through the final of the three he'd pulled out of the box. As expected, he found what he suspected was the final entry of the saga.

_23 February_

_7 pm. My flat._

_Feeling v. déjà vu-esque. Came home to find answerphone light blinking. 'Bzzz, bzzz. Bee, it's Waspy. Marry me. Can't live without you.' Blah, blah, blah. Am not even calling back this time. Know exactly what is in store, and have had enough of this particular carnival ride for a lifetime. Nothing will change. Nothing will be any different. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me three or four times—shame on me._

_Better, I suppose, to be on own than with man who is equivalent to old shoe that you are quite fond of but doesn't fit quite right. So into the dustbin it goes, as should have a long time ago. Realise is quite a mixed metaphor, yet have not even have had glass of wine yet._

He flipped through each page to the end, specifically scanning for the familiar script forming the name of 'Waspy'. As he hit the thirty-first of December of that year with no further references, he closed the diary and sighed.

He delicately slipped the three diaries he'd been perusing back into place in the box he'd taken them from. As if an automaton, he began to reassemble the boxes in precisely the same order back into the closet. Once he was satisfied there was no visible evidence he had touched anything, he walked over to the bathroom, undressed, and took a quick shower before otherwise preparing to go to sleep. It wasn't until he went back into the darkened room, laid back down on the bed, slipped between her sheets and wrapped his arms around a pillow that still smelled faintly of her that the totality of what he'd seen and done hit him with the force of a freight train, and he was overwhelmed by how miserable he felt. Bitterly he reflected that the person he most wanted consolation from was the person he'd just betrayed; how afraid he was going to be to look her in the eye, how he feared he would be—hell, afraid he already _was_—cast from the same mold that Peter was, that it was only a matter of time before he was unexpectedly showing up on Bridget's doorstep, begging her to marry him, bringing her flowers and wine.

He heard the front door open, heard her quietly call his name. He turned to see that in an instant she was peeking her head through the bedroom door. "Aw, Mark, are you still in pain?" she asked tenderly, backlit by the light from the bathroom. He laid his cheek back down on the pillow. She came in, sat on the edge of the bed, and ran her fingers along his hairline.

"I'm sorry," he said, still facing away from her, voice slightly cracking.

"And here I was so very good, didn't have but a glass of wine all night. Ah well."

Somehow this was the straw that broke the camel's back, hearing her confessing to restraining her spirited ways just to please him, and he turned over, embracing her suddenly, almost desperately, needing the comfort of her arms. She scooted closer to him to hold him properly, pressing kisses into his hair, combing the damp locks back with her fingertips. "Can I get you anything, Mark? More headache medicine?"

"I have exactly what I need now," he said softly.

………

He woke to a sunbeam striking him squarely across the eyes. Blinking, he sat up gingerly, for he was all too aware that Bridget was still clinging to him, still dressed from her night out. He smiled as he looked upon her. While he did harbour regret—nay, guilt—for transgressing her private diaries, he realised that in the light of day, everything was not as bad as had seemed in the dark recesses of the room, of his own thoughts. It had been difficult to face her reason for chucking Peter, but he realised he had, in a strange way, been given a chance to escape a similar fate.

He slipped out from her arms, went to the chair upon which sat his folded trousers and took his mobile out from his pocket. He donned his robe then stole out into the main room of the flat, and began punching numbers, calling and making last minute plans.

He didn't think about the cost, didn't stop to think about anything but this weekend and to treating her like an absolute queen. He'd been meaning to be overall more spontaneous, anyway.

When he finished he returned his mobile to its place in his trousers, took the robe off, and went back to the bed, slipping in between the sheets once more. She roused with the bed sinking under his weight, opened her eyes, smiled to him. Despite smudges of makeup beneath her eyes, despite her hair being a tousled mess, she looked beautiful. "How's your head feeling?" she asked, her throat scratchy with sleep.

He answered by leaning over and engaging her in a deep kiss, hands reaching for her waist to press her against him. He could feel her mouth twist into a smile even as she eagerly responded, until she broke away with a sigh. "All better, I see," she said, pulling him over her, then raking her nails along his back.

He loved that the weather had been warm, and he loved her penchant for skirts. He reached for the bottom edge of it, stroking the bare skin of her legs up to her bottom.

"All better," he confirmed as he eased her pants over her hips, then kissed her once more.

………

Content in her arms, he was loathe to move, but he'd made plans and he intended to keep them. He lifted his head from the pillow and placed a tender kiss on her lips, waking her from her dozing. "What?"

"I kiss you and your response is 'what?'" he teased.

"Considering the response I just had despite the horror of having last night's makeup on and dressed in last night's clothing, you should consider yourself honoured." She raised her face and kissed him again, then lavished his bristly chin with attention. "Are we to spend all day in this very fine manner?"

"Actually, no."

She stopped, pulled back to look at him with a very confused look. "No?"

"No," he reiterated. "In fact, you should go and take a shower, fix your hair and makeup, and find a very pretty dress to wear. I have a surprise for you."

Her initial disappointment turned into a happy smile. "A surprise?"

He nodded, smirking at her parrot-like responses.

He didn't know if he should be offended that she scrambled out of bed and into the bathroom in the hurried manner that she did. He rose to follow her, to tame his own hair, to shave and to dress.

He had just finished shaving, was patting away the remnant cream with a towel, when a thought occurred to him. "I'll have to stop by my house for a fresh change of clothes. And my passport."

The resultant thud amused him; she had dropped the bottle of shampoo, bar of soap or similar. "What?" she croaked, sputtering water.

"Passport. I presume yours is current?"

All he heard for many moments was the sound of the water flow.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"What do I need my passport for?" she replied at last.

"Bridget, I am not telling you your surprise when there's potential for injury under running water. Just finish your shower and get out."

A few minutes later the water ceased running and she stepped out, her hair hanging in fronds around her face and dripping water; her skin was pink and probably very warm and she had a towel wrapped around her chest. She had a strange look on her face: concern for his sanity? Cautious optimism? He wasn't sure.

"When did you plan this surprise?"

"This morning."

Her brows raised. "This morning. Ah. Any particular reason?"

"Do I need a reason?"

She looked sepulchral. "You're not going to… tell me you have a brain tumour or anything like that, are you?"

He burst out with a little laugh.

"Well with the headache and all, and how sad you seemed last night…"

He took her into his arms. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Bridget. I just felt like whisking you away somewhere. Can't I do that?" He kissed the top of her head and released her. "Now make yourself gorgeous—not that that takes much work. We have a plane to catch."

"A pl—?" She stopped, obviously realising herself she was sounding like a parrot.

"Unless you prefer to swim across the Channel."

Her eyes grew very wide, and he knew then she knew where they were going. She swallowed, then smiled. "No, a plane will do nicely. Wouldn't want to show up on the Champs-Elysées looking like a drowned rat."

………

Shortly after takeoff he glanced over to where she sat beside him and reached for her hand. She turned her eyes to him with a smile. He honestly couldn't recall when she'd ever looked so lovely. He'd watched the transformation from shower-sodden woman to radiant beauty as she dried her hair and applied her makeup; had witnessed choosing then changing into the gorgeous floaty dress she now wore; had personally seen her decide against stockings due to freshly-shaved legs. He was suddenly filled with such strong love and desire for her (in part due to that most recent thought) he leaned over and said something he hardly expected he'd ever say:

"I'm going to the loo. Wait for three minutes then meet me there."

For a split second, her face expressed the surprise he knew she felt before smirking knowingly. "Mark. Are you sure you're not dying or something?"

He reached forward, kissed her, then headed for the rear toilets.

Mark was a pretty good judge of the passage of time. There was no way in the world that three minutes had passed when he heard the soft rapping, heard her voice say his name. He threw open the lock and the door, took her by the wrist and pulled her in, immediately closed and latched the door; this toilet was very definitely occupied.

In an instant he embraced her, covering her mouth with his own as the logistics of the space and the time available flitted through his head. He reached for her dress, pulling that garment up and her lacy little pants off, as her fingers found the button of his trousers and his fly and tugged them open, pushed his boxers down over his hips; they all whooshed to the floor. His hands grasped her bare thighs and he lifted her up onto the edge of the sink, then wrapped his arms around her waist.

She hooked her legs around his, biting her lower lip as he leaned forward.

………

"I've never done this before," she whispered close to his ear, panting for air as he stood up straight. She continued, "What do we do now? How will everyone not be able to tell?"

He chuckled, and when he spoke, his voice was very throaty. "As if I have," he said in hushed tones, smoothing her hair down. "Aside from your lipstick having been obliterated, you look fine."

She raised her fingers to his mouth. "Yes. I can see that."

He took one of the paper towels and wiped the pigment off, then looked at himself in the mirror behind her. No trace remained, and he otherwise looked normal, if a bit flushed. Stepping back from her, he pulled up his boxers and trousers, fastening them then smoothing them down. "I'll go on out to the seats. In a few minutes come back out. We haven't been gone suspiciously long."

"You're lucky I know better than to think that's the norm," she whispered saucily.

He helped her down off of the edge of the sink, righted her dress, planted a kiss on her lips before opening the door and slipping out.

Thankfully no one was waiting for the loo.

He resumed his seat, straightening his jacket, feeling an odd, small lump there in the pocket. He smiled as he recalled what it was.

The air hostess came by to ensure he was comfortable, if he wanted something to drink; he ordered two glasses of wine. "Is your traveling companion all right?" queried the air hostess with a concerned look. "She's been gone a long time."

Mark smiled. "Yes. I'm certain she's fine. Thanks for your concern." He realised she was right; Bridget had been gone longer than she should have been.

The air hostess nodded then went off for their drinks.

Within a minute or two Bridget appeared by his side. He stood to let her back into her seat, noticed she looked a little panicked.

As they both sat again, he leaned closer to her. "Are you okay? What took you so long?"

"Fixing my lipstick, tidying up…" she said, then continued in a lower tone, "Mark, I hate to be an alarmist, but my pants… they've gone missing."

He tried not to laugh out loud. "Missing?" he asked, effecting his most concerned tone.

"Well, they must be in there, but I can't find them, and I'm horrified someone else might. Will you please go back and look?"

"There's no need."

"What? Why?"

He patted his jacket pocket.

"Oh thank God," she said, relieved. "Let me have them."

"Hmm. No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" she asked, perplexed.

"I mean to answer you in the negative," he said playfully. "You can't have them back."

"Why not?"

"It's a memento," he said quietly, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Initiation into the Mile High Club."

She was fighting to hold back a giggle. "You'd better hope it's not a windy day in Paris," she threatened teasingly.

The air hostess returned with two glasses of wine. "I took the liberty of ordering you some," Mark explained upon seeing her confused look.

"Oh, thank you." She accepted her glass, took a sip.

"Are you feeling all right, miss?" asked the air hostess, renewing her concern.

"Me? Never better. Though I'm starting to wonder about the mental health of my fiancé," she said, shooting him a smile, then leaning to kiss him.

As they drank their wine, she took his free hand in her own, and relaxed in comfortable silence for the remainder of the short plane ride.

………

The lights from the city cast a glow over the hotel suite, over the broad bed, over the reposing figures curled together in the middle of the bed. He was unable to sleep, his mind replaying the whirlwind day they'd had: shopping, a little sightseeing, dinner, slow dancing, then retiring to the suite for an evening of tender lovemaking. She stirred as she slept; his gaze was drawn down as the shadows shifted across her cheek. He stroked her hair, inadvertently waking her.

"Are you all right?" she said sleepily, lifting her head.

"I'm fine," he assured, stroking her hair. "Probably just too much coffee after dinner. Go back to sleep."

She laid her head back down, running her fingers across where the sheet covered his chest. "I had a really great day, Mark. I don't know what I did to deserve such a treat. It's kind of a disproportionate response to feeling bad about having a headache."

He chuckled, running his hand along her shoulder. "I just don't want you to ever forget I love you."

"Not possible. You don't give me a chance to." She tightened her embrace.

………

"No, I'm fine—I just forgot my mobile at home. Really."

Mark smirked, quite pleased with himself. They were back in Bridget's flat after the plane ride home. He stretched out on the sofa while she got caught up with Sharon. He listened amusedly as she described their getaway, was especially pleased to hear her describe the entire affair as a "completely, utterly, out-of-the-blue surprise" and "so unlike him, really!"

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he remembered was her sitting beside him, shaking him awake.

"Sorry," he said, sitting upright. "How's Sharon?"

"She's fine." She looked upon him with deep affection, smiling broadly, taking his hand. "What a wonderful weekend. I'm not sure where this little burst of spontaneity came from, but I like it all the same."

He wondered if his face betrayed the moment of insecurity he felt—did that mean she ordinarily thought him a little stodgy?—because she added, her smile transforming into a smirk, "Not that I don't like you otherwise."

He managed a smile.

………

At his weekly lunch with Jeremy, a vaguely familiar profile caught Mark's attention, though his attire, his coiffure, was slightly more polished than their previous encounter. He must have been staring more than was polite, because it was enough to cause Jeremy to make a comment. "Do you know Flowers?"

"Who?"

"Peter Flowers. Brilliant civil engineer." He lowered his voice. "And, coincidentally, an ex of Bridget's. Terribly nice chap. Mags and I were so surprised when she chucked him." Jeremy and his typically clueless asides.

"Ah. No, I don't know him as such. Just thought I recognised him, maybe from an old photo of Bridget's." The entire exchange caused him to become terribly self-conscious and not look again until Jeremy paid their bill then excused himself to leave to make a court appointment.

When Mark glanced back again Peter was still there. He was dining alone, dabbing a serviette to his mouth, reaching into his inner suit jacket pocket, probably for his wallet. Mark was suddenly gripped with remorse for his rudeness the night Peter showed up at Bridget's with daisies and wine, decided to get up and offer an apology before he left.

"Peter."

The man looked up from examining his bill.

"Do I—?" Recognition took hold, and he stopped short, clearing his throat. "Oh. Yes. Sorry, never caught your name."

"Mark Darcy." He held out his hand, and Peter shook it.

"Peter Flowers. But you probably knew that already." There was a moment of silence before Peter added, "Why don't you sit down?"

Mark accepted, didn't fancy talking to Peter from his full height. It would attract too much attention. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to apologise for my behaviour at Bridget's flat that night."

"There's no need for apologies," he said, offering a smile. "If anything, I should apologise to the both of you. It was wrong of me to show up there like that and let myself in. She could have been naked in the bath, for all I knew." He then flushed bright pink. "Sorry."

"I know what you meant," said Mark.

"Plus, if I'd known she was engaged…"

Mark held up a hand. "It's all right. It was just that your phone call the night before kind of caught me off guard."

"Oh. Oh God. You were there when I…"

Mark nodded, swore Peter flushed purple.

"More than just your phone call caught me by surprise," Mark admitted. "Your whole past relationship. I was feeling a little… protective, I guess, and I overreacted. I'm terribly sorry."

Peter's colour recovered itself to a more natural tone, and he smiled. "No hard feelings. I'm glad Bee—er, Bridget is happy."

"I do my best."

"So how long have you been together? If you don't mind me asking," he added quickly.

"Just after Christmas. Last year. With, er, a break in the middle."

Peter had the good grace to keep his mouth from dropping open; after all, it was a mere blink of the eye compared to the seven plus years Peter had been with her. His tone was light when he spoke, though, and he grinned. "Hm. Perhaps that's where I went wrong. Congratulations. I hope you'll both be very happy. Please send my best wishes to Bridget."

"I'll do that, though you could do that yourself," said Mark with a reserved smile. "Just no further impassioned pleas for her hand in marriage. I've got that well under control."

Peter grinned again, happy for the reprieve. "So I saw you—at least I think it was you—having lunch with Jeremy. Are you a barrister as well?"

Mark nodded. "Yes. We work in chambers together, Jeremy and I. And yourself?" he asked, although he already knew.

"Civil engineering."

"Ah. Don't know much about that discipline."

"About as much I know about law, I wager."

After the conversation moved to politics (a general agreement that a Tory had to be restored to Number 10 Downing Street) and sports (they had a healthy debate regarding Newcastle United versus Arsenal), Peter glanced to his wristwatch. "Aw, bugger. I have an appointment to get to. You'll forgive me."

"And I have to pick Bridget up—she's on location for work."

"Ah." Peter grinned. "Not working in publishing anymore? Last I heard she was going for a job at a Pemberley Press."

"No. She's in television now."

Peter's eyes widened. "Television? Wow."

"She's on Sit Up Britain."

"I don't watch much telly," he said. "Is she happy doing that?"

"Well, if she had a saner boss, I suppose she'd be happier."

Peter chuckled. "Well, I suppose it's too much to ask to have sanity in every area in one's life." He appeared to be thoughtful for a moment, before hesitantly asking, "Tell me. Does she still have the caloric content of an unholy amount of foods memorised?"

Mark laughed. "Yes."

"And constantly talk about needing to diet, even though she doesn't actually ever do it, and doesn't need to?"

Mark nodded. "Yes to all three. It'd be pizza every night if she could swing it."

Peter smiled. "I remember that too well." He sighed. "Damn. I really must go."

"As do I." Both men rose from their seats. "Sorry to have kept you."

"No, I'm glad you came over to talk to me. It had been bothering me to leave things like that." Peter held out his hand, offering a parting handshake. "Thank you."

Mark accepted. "You're welcome."

As he left the restaurant, Mark expected he would have felt happy at the exchange that had just occurred, but instead he felt unbelievably morose. He'd sort of demonised the man into being slightly better company than a mossy rock, but he was actually friendly, nice, interesting to talk to—and they had a lot in common. Of course, he had no idea what it was actually like to be in a relationship with the man, but on the surface, Peter was very much like himself, and he found that unsettling.

He supposed he must have still been visibly preoccupied with the matter when he arrived to pick up Bridget, for upon taking a seat beside him in the car, she immediately furrowed her brows. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he replied automatically, glancing to the side.

"Don't lie to me, Mark Darcy," she admonished playfully. "What's going on? Lunch with Jeremy that disturbing?"

He swallowed, clearing the lump from his throat. He didn't want to talk about this now, not when they both had an afternoon of work to get through. "It's just been a long morning."

"Oh." She became unnaturally silent for the entire ride back to her work, when she reached over and gave him a tight, tight hug and kissed him full on the mouth. "You coming over later?"

He nodded, felt a smile slip across his lips.

She smiled. "See you then." She kissed him again then turned to leave the car.

………

As he left work, he remembered it was his turn to pick up a movie. He was browsing through the video rental place when his eyes lit on a documentary he'd been meaning to rent. His hand reached for the box, then he stopped.

Did he really want to spend the night curled up with Bridget on the couch watching a documentary about the atrocities of third world working conditions? How many times had he brought over similar rentals and not even thought twice about subjecting her to their content?

His hand retreated. It had not been so difficult to choose a rental in his life.

"Looking f'r something?" asked a cheerful female voice. He turned and saw a young girl dressed in black and an almost schoolgirl-like blue-green plaid skirt and high-heeled combat boots. She had pigtailed cherry red hair and equally red lips, smiling broadly as she smacked her gum loudly, blinking her black-lined eyes as if trying to assess what variety of alien creature he was, with his pin-striped suit and tie, short-cropped hair and attaché case.

"Well, actually, I was having trouble deciding," he said. "Have you any suggestions? Something fun."

She looked over, clearly noticing they were surrounded by fairly intense documentaries, then looked to him with one of her precisely-shaped brows raised. "Y'aren't likely to find it over here," she said with a smirk.

"Yes, got a little turned around."

"What sort of fun are you in the mood for?" she asks.

If he didn't know any better, he might have thought she was flirting. He was oddly flattered, and grinned. "Something light, something that doesn't require much brain power. It's been a long day."

"Like… how light are we talking? Romantic comedy? Three Stooges? Looney Tunes?"

He snapped his fingers. Perfect. "Yes. That last one. Bugs Bunny. Daffy Duck."

She chuckled, grinning again. "Never would have pegged you for a Warner Brothers fan. All right then. We just got in a deluxe collection. Let me show you where it is."

………

The reaction he expected was not the one he got. Instead she looked at him as if tempted to feel for a fever.

"I thought we might both need a little bit of a laugh," he explained.

Still regarding him warily, she took the disc from his hand. "I hope you don't mind pizza again," she said. "I was too tired to cook."

He smirked, thinking of his conversation with Peter as he slipped out of his suit jacket. "Of course not."

"Though we really have to start cutting back," she said, handing back the DVD to him and heading to the cupboard to pull down some plates.

_Now it's 'we'_, he thought with continued amusement as from his vantage point in the living room he watched her get up on her toes to reach the dinner plates, watched her miniskirt ride up even higher. He wondered if, when they were old and grey, she'd still be wearing her short little skirts and form-fitting jumpers…

His mind wandered lazily to the two of them, how different they were, how odd they must have looked when they were together; his business suits, sports jackets and dress trousers must have made him look more like a parent than a partner. The thought depressed him somewhat. He would have to rectify that sooner rather than later—

"Stop gawking at my arse and put in the disc," she called playfully as she came back into the living room with two plates.

Recovering himself, he quipped, taking the disc to the DVD player, "Wouldn't you start to worry if I had perhaps lost interest?"

Her retort was to stroll up to him, plant a kiss on his lips and hand him a plate. "Fire up the cartoons," she said.

They ate their pizza; they laughed themselves silly. The sheer nature of what they were watching led to poking, then tickling, then wrestling and attempting to pin one another down on the sofa, which subsequently led to heavy breathing, then kissing, then activities of a decidedly more mature disposition. Upon the culmination of said activities, he heard Bridget sigh, "I'll never be able to watch Warner Brothers cartoons again without blushing."

………

For a Saturday, Bridget was awake unusually early; awake and dressed even before Mark had ventured out of bed.

At his assuredly confused look, she explained, "I'm meeting with Jude to shop for a swimsuit."

Mark blinked, attempting to parse what she'd said. "Bridget, it's autumn."

"Yes," she said, drawing out the word so that it seemed five miles long. "She is going on holiday to Majorca next week. Don't you remember me texting you about this?"

He felt a stain of colour invade his cheeks, embarrassed for his lack of tech-savvy. "No, sorry, I don't always remember to check text messages."

She chuckled, sitting beside him, running a hand over his bare shoulder, then leaning over to kiss him. "I'll bring you into the twenty-first century yet," she teased. "I shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. See you when I get back?"

"I have a few errands to run, myself," he said. "I'll come back here after I'm done."

"Goody." She smiled, then rose to leave, pausing at the door long enough to blow him a kiss.

Everything he'd been pondering—his staid suits, his poor choice in rental material, his disinclination towards modern methods of communication; in short, the likelihood of ending up on the same reject pile that good old Waspy had and for the same reasons—hit him at once like a swirling ball of self-loathing. It was not something he was used to.

It was true that he had a few errands to run—but that didn't mean he couldn't do a few more.

………

_So this must be what time travel feels like_, Mark thought.

He found himself standing in the trendy Notting Hill clothing shop amongst a riot of colours, racks and racks of cutting-edge hipster wear, feeling like something of a relic. He had always prided himself on his finely-tailored suits, knew that the expense was well worth it, but outside of work he couldn't be bothered to keep up with couture. The effort just wasn't worth it. He had the good sense to steer clear of dated fashions—excepting of course the occasional foray into novelty jumpers and ties—but mostly he just wore what was comfortable.

He was approached by a thin man, no older than twenty-five, with close-cropped bleach-blond hair and spectacles that would have been better suited to Buddy Holly. "Doing a little shopping for your son?" he asked brightly.

_Oh God_, he groaned inwardly.

"Actually," said Mark, clearing his throat, "I'm looking to, um, update my casual wardrobe."

"Ohhh," replied the sales clerk, an air of awkwardness surrounding him. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to assume or offend…"

Mark offered a polite grin. "It's all right. I'm aware I'm not exactly a fashion plate."

The sales clerk smirked a little bit, then looked down to Mark's shoes, over his trousers, and up to his jumper. "Well, where shall we begin?"

………

He was done in what Bridget would probably think of as no time at all but he found interminable—two hours—and he came out of the shop exhausted and with three carrier bags containing six pairs of trousers (including denims), ten shirts and three pairs of shoes. The moment he got back to Bridget's flat he changed out of his regular slacks and into a pair of black trousers with matching braces ("the 'in' thing," advised Kyle, the sales clerk, with a smile) and a white short-sleeved button-down shirt made of brushed cotton with fashionably wide lapels.

He was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable he felt, and was looking forward to Bridget's reaction. Rejuvenated, he decided to get a head start on dinner and popped out to buy some chicken breast and lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers for a salad.

He was just pushing the pan of chicken breasts into the oven when he heard a key turn in the door. "I'm sorry I was gone so long," Bridget called as she came in; he heard her hang her keys on the hook at the top of the landing. "Jude did find a swimsuit at last though, so it was worth the eff—"

The word cut off so abruptly he expected that when he looked up she would have vanished from existence. Instead she stood there, her mouth hanging open in an unseemly manner. His expression in response must have been enough to make her aware of her gawking; she closed her mouth but she looked like she might burst out laughing. Not exactly the response he was hoping for.

"Mark, what are you wearing?" she asked in an overly placid voice.

"I went shopping."

"Ah."

"Don't you like it?"

"Well…"

She hated it. He felt his posture slump.

"I don't hate it," she supplied too quickly. "I never would have expected to see you dressed like this, that's all."

"Like what precisely?"

"Like Matt in research," she said.

"And that means…?" he continued.

"Well, like you're younger than you are," she explained, faltering as she came to the end of sentence.

He brought his hand to his face, pushing air between his teeth. "I'll change back."

He went to turn towards the bedroom when she found his wrist and grasped it, holding him back. "That sounded better in my head," she admitted. "Mark, you look very handsome. Really."

He looked at her skeptically.

"But it's not really you," she said in conclusion. Her eyes were filled with unspoken concern. "Are you really all right?" she asked darkly.

"I'm fine."

He wasn't sure he felt fine, and it didn't appear that she really believed him, but she pulled him closer, took him in her arms. "If you say so," she said softly. "But you know you can tell me anything."

"I know." He tightened his arms around her as a twinge of guilt pierced his heart.

The baking chicken had begun to infuse the kitchen with the scent of thyme and basil, and he heard Bridget began to sniff the air as she pulled back from the embrace. "Ooh, what's that baking?"

"Dinner," he offered.

"Oooh," she said, a wry smile finding her lips. "A boy toy who can cook."

"Boy toy?"

"Hm, yes," she said definitively. Now he knew she was teasing him, but strangely it made him feel better. "I came home and found this hot little number cooking dinner for me. What's a girl to do but give in to it?"

He chuckled then leaned forward to plant a kiss on her forehead. "I'll take them all back tomorrow." He could not help but feel that Kyle would be disappointed in him, somehow.

"'Take them _all_ back'?"

He grimaced. "Yes. There's more."

"Well, no, let's not write everything off too quickly," she supplied, smirking. "How much time until that's ready?"

"About thirty minutes."

She walked towards the bedroom, taking him by the hand. "Let's see the rest, shall we?"

………

All in all, most of the day's purchases were consigned to be returned, though Bridget admitted that the white brushed cotton shirt did look very attractive on him, once the trousers with the braces attached to them were out of the picture. "These denims look quite nice, too, as do the dark trousers. Very smart cut. And oh, you can wear them tomorrow!"

"What's tomorrow?"

She chuckled. "You really don't read your text messages. I sent to you about having brunch with Magda and Jeremy. We can take the rest of these clothes back afterwards."

"Oh," he said. "Okay."

He didn't particularly like the idea of Bridget going with him to return the clothing, like the other men in the place might think less of him because it looked like his girlfriend was making him take back the clothes. He didn't have much time to ponder it further though because he heard the timer start to sound in the kitchen. He hastened to slip into and fasten his reliable old casual trousers and get back to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. He swore she looked disappointed to see him dress and depart the room in such a hasty manner, but she was all too happy to come and wash the lettuce.

………

Everything about brunch plans seemed to point towards a terrific outing. His law partner, her friend; casual setting, good food, and an easy atmosphere. Mark was just wondering why they hadn't done this sooner when the unthinkable happened.

"I was just thinking yesterday," Magda was saying to Bridget, "how quickly time is going by. I mean it feels like yesterday that I got married, that you and—well," she stopped suddenly, flushing pink and glancing to Mark. The ground began to figuratively shift under Mark's feet. "It just feels like no time at all has gone by."

Jeremy had picked up on Magda's train of thought, damn him, saying to his wife: "We saw him at lunch the other day. Old boy doesn't look any different."

"Saw who?" Bridget asked, furrowing her brow.

"Peter, Bridge. Didn't Mark tell you?"

"He didn't mention it, no."

He wished at that moment that he might have instead pursued medicine, that his mobile might have begun to ring, calling him away to a emergency virus outbreak or life-saving surgery. He looked to her then quickly looked away, as if he were afraid to engage her furious glare, but she didn't look angry so much as contemplative, concerned. He glanced to the remains of his fruit crepes, suddenly feeling like his appetite had abandoned him.

Bridget, however, continued on as if the comment had not been made, changing the course of the conversation to other things, and when their little party broke up twenty minutes later, he was feeling much more himself again.

The ride home was a little on the quiet side. He had brought the clothes to return with him, had put them in the boot of the car, but she seemed to have utterly forgotten their existence, and he was willing to take full advantage of that, pulling in front of her flat.

"I have a lot of work to do tonight before court tomorrow."

She nodded, then looked up to him. "Yeah, I should tidy up 'round the flat, try to come up with some ideas for the morning meeting."

He leaned forward and met her halfway for a kiss, then she pulled back with a hesitant smile, opening the door and rising from the passenger side. "Call me later?" she asked. He nodded. She smiled again then closed the door.

………

Eating dinner alone in his own house felt strange, Chinese takeaway at his desk as he reviewed his notes for court the next day. He looked forward to when they were actually married so that she was never farther away than a floor of the house or two. _If_, he thought somberly, _she doesn't chuck me first for being too much like good old solid, boring Peter._

It was nearing ten-thirty when he remembered he'd promised to call Bridget that evening, so he picked up the phone and punched in the number for her flat. There was no answer, which was strange; he left a brief message on the answerphone that he'd try the mobile. After three rings on the mobile, she picked up, and he was met with the sound of a lot of background chatter. "Hallo?" she asked.

"Bridget?"

"Oh, hi Mark!"

"Where are you?"

"Went out for a drink with the girls."

He heard a voice rise in the background, male, most assuredly Tom: "And me."

Another voice, female, replied, "You _are_ one of the girls." Sharon.

"Everything all right?" Mark asked.

"Yes, yes, of course," she said in a placating tone that made him feel like he'd just interrupted a conversation about himself. "And you?"

"I'm fine. Damned tired of reading court papers."

She chuckled.

It made him feel weak to think how much he needed to be near her, wanted to say he wished she could come over, but he just told her he loved her, told her not to stay out too late, and that he would see her soon.

There was a pause before she replied, one that made his heart break a little. "I love you too," she said, almost too low to hear over the din of the crowd.

………

During the day, he was able to work as if he were slipping into a completely different persona. Court went well, ruling went in his client's favour, and he all around felt like he'd conquered the world… until he took off his barrister wig and robes, and headed for his car.

As he pushed the key into the ignition, uncertainty set in. Was he going home? Was he going to Bridget's? Did his not mentioning seeing Peter at lunch truly not bother her, or was she cross with him, holding in her true feelings about his not sharing that piece of information?

While sitting in such a state of indecision his mobile began to ring. He saw that it was Bridget, and answered it. "Hello, darling," he said.

He could hear the smile creep into her voice as she spoke, but there was something else there, something he couldn't quite define. "Hi. Mark. What are you doing tonight?"

"I only just got done for the day. Hadn't thought about it otherwise."

"Want to come over for dinner?"

He felt it a Herculean effort not to shout an affirmative into the mobile; instead he said, "I'd like very much to see you tonight. Are you home now?"

"On my way."

"I'll meet you there."

………

They arrived to her building at about the same time. He greeted her with a kiss and a tight hug. She smiled. "I've ordered a pizza. I hope that's all right."

He couldn't help but chuckle.

They scaled the stairs and as she turned her key into the lock, he ran his hand over her shoulder, across the fabric of her jacket. She turned momentarily to glance at him with a grin, then turned back to push the door open.

She scaled the stairs up to the flat, turning on the lights, hanging her keys on the rack, setting her bag down and sloughing off her coat. "How was your day?" she asked.

"Pretty damn good, actually," he said, slipping out of his overcoat as well. He proceeded to tell her what he could about the case and the ruling, and she looked appropriately impressed. "How about you?"

"Eh, spent the day trying to argue with Richard Finch that we didn't really need to do a story about geriatric swingers." He chuckled. She came close to him and embraced him. "Mostly just very glad it's over and that you're here."

He folded her into his arms. "Absolutely."

She then released him, took his hand, and tugged him over to the sofa. "Why don't you sit down? I'll bring you a glass of wine, and we can relax a little before dinner arrives."

He followed her to the sofa, loosened his tie, unfastened the top button of his dress shirt then sat back into the cushions. He kicked off his shoes, leaned back and stretched his feet out in front of him. She slipped away and into the kitchen, returning momentarily with a glass of red wine, then settled in next to him, and handed it to him.

"Where's yours?"

"Too difficult to drink wine when I'm doing this." She turned, snaked her arms around him, resting her cheek on his chest, bending her knees and pulling her feet up onto the sofa. "…all I need right now."

He slipped his left arm around her shoulders, holding her close, then took a drink of the red wine. It was his favourite, perfectly chilled, and he felt all of the tension that had been building since he'd left court wash away.

Silly to think she'd hold the whole "Peter sighting" against him. Surely she understood why he didn't really want to discuss it.

A short while later, the entryphone buzzed, signaling the arrival of dinner. Bridget didn't budge, and he realised it was because she'd fallen asleep. He smirked, wondering exactly how late she'd stayed out the night before. Gently he eased her out of his arms to lie on the sofa, then went to answer the entryphone.

He went down to meet the pizza delivery boy, then came back to see her still asleep on the sofa. He set the box down in the kitchen then went over to where she was dozing, crouching beside her. "Bridget, darling, dinner's here," he said quietly, shaking her shoulder.

She awoke with a start. "Oh, sorry."

"It's all right. I'm perfectly capable of paying for the pizza."

She smiled sleepily. "Well, no, I was intending on getting a snog in before dinner arrived."

He laughed. "There's time for that afterwards."

As they ate, Mark was immensely grateful he liked pepperoni as much as he did. She refilled his wine and poured one for herself. As promised, after dinner, she curled up to him and pulled him into a kiss.

Unexpectedly, unhappily, just as all indications pointed towards more than just a snog in the very near future, she retreated from him and sighed. "Mark, you know I love you," she began ominously.

He felt like he'd been kicked in the gut, wondered where this could possibly be heading, for the moment fearing the worst. "I do, yes."

"And I know you love me."

"Unequivocally."

She pushed away from him, sat up. "So it's out of love that I give this to you."

She stood and went to her bag, crouching down and rifling through its contents until she found a small brown paper sack. She returned to sit beside him on the sofa and handed it to him. He took it, opened the bag, and stared unblinkingly at the cover, unable to comprehend what it meant:

_Crossing the Soul's River: A Rite of Passage for Men_.

He looked up. "Bridget, what is this?"

"It's… a book."

"Well, yes, I can plainly see it's a book." He turned it over, read the blurbs on the back. "'…a welcome exploration of men's spiritual journey at midlife'?" he quoted incredulously. "Bridget, I'm not yet forty. Why in the world have you bought me a midlife-crisis self-help book?"

"Well," she explained, wringing her hands in her lap a little nervously, "you have been acting a bit strangely these past few weeks, whisking me off to Paris on a whim, shagging in the toilet on the plane, renting Bugs Bunny cartoons, _shagging_ to Bugs Bunny cartoons, buying age-inappropriate clothing… then Jeremy reminded me of the whole Waspy thing, of you seeing him at lunch, and I realised you must not have told me because you were feeling a little insecure or something." She looked up to him, a smile at the edge of her mouth. "I talked it over with Jude, Shaz and Tom, and they agreed with me that you might need a book before you go out and buy a cherry red E-type Jag convertible or something."

He set the book down then reached over to embrace her. Looking back on those things he had done since the night Peter had called unexpectedly, it occurred to him that it might have looked exactly like a midlife crisis from Bridget's point of view. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I don't know what I would do without you."

………

It was something of an untruth to allow her to persist in the belief that he was, in fact, experiencing a midlife crisis, but he was sure that in time his insecurities would fade. After all, if she were thinking about chucking him she wouldn't have bothered with the book—she would have just chucked him. It didn't mean he wasn't still thinking of ways to be, well, less like Peter.

Court continued to keep him busy, and he worked too late into the night for most of the week. When he finally did see her a few nights later, she looked a tad skittish, pacing around the living room, waiting for his arrival, nervously sucking and rolling a lollipop around in her mouth, the stick bobbing and weaving from between her lips.

He tried not to panic or think that maybe the book was just a precursor to chucking. "Everything all right?" he asked.

She pulled the grape lollipop from her mouth, set the fragile, stained-glass-like remnant down on a coaster. "Well," she began, raising her hand up to scratch nervously at the base of her neck. "I have to go film a story in Blackpool tomorrow."

Relief washed over him. "What's wrong with Blackpool?"

"Nothing's wrong with Blackpool," she said. "It's, um… they're sending me with Daniel Cleaver."

He didn't know what alarmed him more: the way his stomach dropped out through the floor at her telling him this, or the aura of anxiety surrounding her before she told him. "Oh," he said, his voice tight and terse. Dammit. He cleared his throat. "Ah," he said, striving for a more nonchalant tone.

"We'll be driving in the van with the camera crew, and I'm making him sit in the back with the equipment."

He took her by the hand. He may not have trusted Cleaver, but he trusted her, and certainly an assignment with him was not something she would have signed up for on purpose. "You don't have to look like you were going to tell me my puppy had died."

"Sorry. I just know how you get… how you react to him. Not that you don't have good reason," she hastened to add. "But I hardly like to antagonise you or—" She stopped suddenly, pulling in her lips.

"Or what?"

"Well, send you off into one of your stern little lectures," she said with a sheepish smile.

"My what?"

"You know, Mark," she began, then slipped into what he guessed must have been an attempted imitation of his strictest tone: "'Don't walk home alone after dark, Bridget.' 'Don't eat so much of the Milk Tray before dinner, Bridget.' 'You really shouldn't've had so much to drink when you have to work tomorrow, Bridget.'"

He felt like he'd been socked in the gut. Did she really hesitate to tell him things because she was fearful he'd give her a talking-to like some sort of overprotective father? He gave his best effort at a scoffing tone. "It doesn't bother me at all that you're riding to a location with him."

"Really?"

"Absolutely," he said without hesitation. He would never let on that it made him nervous to the core.

She looked to him, still obviously in disbelief, but she smiled. "I'm pleased to have misjudged you here." Her countenance changed subtly, and she continued to regard him for many moments. "Well," she said at last, "that makes my next bit of news a little easier to give you."

"Next bit of news?"

She nodded. "Richard Finch wants to revive the 'Smooth Guide/Guide-ess' concept. They're thinking both Daniel and me in Turkey, which I'd love to see. I told him I'd have to think about it, thought you would shoot down the idea in an instant. Wow. I'll tell him yes, then!" She bounced up on her toes and into his arms.

His arms slipped around her; he felt his stomach turn into a lead brick. Fantastic history, beautiful sights—but setting aside for the moment the whole Daniel aspect, there had been increased political tensions in recent months, making it dangerous to travel to Turkey at present. He felt something inside snap; he was not going to risk her life just to avoid being dull. "No."

She froze, pulling back and out of his embrace. "What?"

"I said 'no'. With or without Daniel, Turkey is too unsafe right now."

She didn't say anything for many moments. Curiously, she then smiled. "I knew you couldn't resist the whole protective sermon on that one."

Mark felt as if they were lobbing confusion back and forth between them, and now that ball was in his court. "What?"

"There is no Turkey trip, with or without Daniel." She looked suddenly quite serious. "What on earth is going on with you, Mark? I thought maybe it was a sort of male-menopause thing, but I can't imagine you reining in your protective instincts because of that. Talk to me."

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, looked down. There really was no avoiding the truth any longer. "Bridget," he began unsurely, "that day that Jeremy and I saw Peter at lunch, I stayed behind to apologise. We got to talking, got along quite well, discovered we had quite a lot in common: politics, sports, habits, et cetera."

"This is about Peter again? I don't understand."

"You chucked him."

"Yes, I did."

"And he and I are_ very_ alike. Surely I don't need to spell it out."

Their eyes stayed engaged for what felt like an eternity before comprehension flitted across her features. "Oh, Mark. You don't really think—"

"Rationally, I know you're right, but logic has little to do with it. You can't recall why you ever left him in the first place. I can only assume there was no specific reason," he continued, fibbing slightly, "but more of a cumulative effect that somehow equaled Peter getting chucked. And that I might end up the same for being too—" He hated to say it. "—boring."

Her eyes searched his before she leaned forward and embraced him. "You are not boring, Mark," she said into his shoulder. "You're stable. There's a huge difference."

The sense of relief that washed over him actually surprised him, and he tightened his arms about her, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of her head. They were both very silent for many moments.

"Stable is good," she continued. "I did my time with the so-called 'bad boy' and all it got me was a broken heart." She pulled away, drawing back to look into his eyes, and she furrowed her brows for a moment. "I don't think you have ever once bored—Oh," she said abruptly. "Oh my God."

"What?"

She shifted her eyes to the side. "Nothing."

Alarm flared up anew. "Bridget, that isn't nothing."

"Hold on a moment." She went into the bedroom at top speed; Mark had a distinctly bad feeling about what was to come next. He then heard the recognisable sound of boxes moving, papers rustling. He felt frozen in place, irrationally waiting for her to find evidence he couldn't possibly have left behind. Several minutes later when she called, "Mark! Come here," he swore he jumped.

He entered the room, saw the boxes from the closet stacked haphazardly off to the side; the one that was packed with all diaries had its lid off and was at her feet as she sat on the bed.

"Everything all right?" he asked in the most normal voice he could manage, which still sounded high and pinched to his own ears.

She indicated three diaries sitting on her lap, the third on top open to a page that he unfortunately recognised: writing neat on the left side of the page, disintegrating to a scrawl on the right. "I thought I just remembered the reason for chucking Waspy, so I had to come and check before I told you."

The constant and overwhelming guilt stemming from reading her diary became too much to bear, and he looked down, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Bridget." He looked up to meet her eyes, didn't want to be a coward about this anymore, regardless of the fallout. Softly he said, "I already know. I read the diary entries."

She pursed her lips, and he steeled himself for the explosion that he knew was to follow. He grasped her flat key between his thumb and forefinger in his trouser pocket, fully expecting her to ask for it back. Instead her lips smoothed out then curled into a smile.

"I know."

He was floored. "You—you _what_?"

"I _know_. Or at the very least, I suspected from the minute I remembered the reason and came back in here to find the entry. I knew you must have seen my rambling on and on. Fixating like that on one word is very like you."

He cleared his throat and looked down again. "Well. If you want to chuck me now, I'd understand," he said mournfully.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not."

He knit his brows, looking up once more. "But you must be furious with me."

"Actually, I was going to offer them to you to read."

"_What?_" When he spoke again it was almost as if he was trying to incite an angry reaction: "Bridget, that night I saw your photos and diary you were prepared to toss me out on my ear. I don't understand."

"I realised something very important after that night. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that it didn't really matter if you saw what I'd written in there. For one thing, if something happened to me—touch wood—you would see them all anyway. Secondly, I really don't have much to hide—it isn't as if I ever said anything about _you_ back then. And thirdly, well, I'm a _very_ different person now. Much more mature and responsible."

An image of her sucking madly on the grape lollipop not more than an hour previous popped up unbidden into his head.

"What's more important," she continued in a slightly more serious tone, moving the diaries off to the side then patting the bed beside her so that he might join her, "is that you realise you are not slated for chucking. You may be similar to Waspy as he is now, but the crucial difference is that he had become a very different person than the one I had fallen for. We grew apart. You, on the other hand—"

"—started out boring," he said in a half-jest.

"No, Mark," she said sternly. "You are the person I fell for, just as you are."

Mark Darcy was not an emotional man. He wasn't easily spurred to tears. It ordinarily took a good hard stub to the toe or slamming fingers in a door to get him to well and truly water up, and even that was no guarantee he'd allow it to come to crying. He'd come close the night she'd walked out on him, come even closer the day she'd accepted his marriage proposal. This simple statement had, however, accomplished what usually only bodily injury did, and before he could fortify his usual reserve he felt wetness spill down over his lower lids. He was quick to turn from her, embarrassed to the core, and made to brush the wetness away before she took hold of his face with both of her hands and turned him back to her.

"Sorry," he muttered.

He supposed the tender sweep of her thumbs under his eyes, the gentle way she kissed him with faintly-grape-sweet lips, was her way of accepting the apology.

………

The grumbling of a hungry stomach was something of a mood killer. Mark was dozing lazily beside Bridget, feeling more content than he had in quite some time, when the offending sound occurred. She started to chuckle, then pulled herself close to him. "We never did have supper, did we?"

"Had I a choice, I'd rather stay in bed than eat," he said in a low growl, fully prepared to keep her there for as long as he could, diving down to plant kisses on her exposed throat.

She made a soft sound that vibrated against his lips. After several minutes, during which he had progressed to her earlobe, she asked, "So the whole Jim thing didn't bother you?"

He stopped, rearing his head back to look at her. "Jim?"

She sucked her lower lip nervously. "I thought you said you read the diary."

"I didn't read every page. So what 'Jim thing' are you referring to?"

"Not important."

"If you don't tell me, I'll just read the diary like you said I could."

She stared hard at him, then sighed. "Rock, meet hard place."

He smirked.

"Before the final breakup with Waspy, I met Jim while out with the girls one night. He was hilarious, and we talked—and flirted—for hours. I saw him again the next time we went out. More talking, more flirting. He made how unhappy I had been with Waspy stand out in sharp relief. So… well. A few nights after I had chucked Waspy, I saw him again, and, um, kind of shagged him."

Mark fought hard to keep his emotions in check. "Kind of?"

"You know," she said, her eyes imploring him.

He didn't know, but let it slide. "So then what?"

"Well, we went out a few times but… I don't know. He just had this need to entertain me and himself all the time, and in small doses that was fun and exciting, but constantly… it was wearing. Too far in the opposite extreme."

"Ah."

"That's all? 'Ah'?"

"Would you prefer I had a stronger reaction than this?" He resumed nuzzling into her neck when he heard once more that one of them—too hard to tell which—was in fact in need of sustenance. He sighed, and stopped. They really needed to have supper.

As he pushed away to reach for his shirt, he asked, "Who else do I need to know about? I don't want any more surprises."

She made a big show of thinking very hard. "I doubt Abnor would ever come calling."

"Abnor? Who's Abnor?"

She smiled secretively. "Proposed to me on the bus."

He cocked an eyebrow up.

She explained, "I was eighteen, and he was very earnest."

He realised the shirt he was fighting with was not his own at all, but hers. He handed it to her. "I see."

"I would have never been happy with a budding engineer in Northampton," she teased.

As he got dressed, he pondered another thing that had bothering him to a small extent: that she and Peter had had the intimate bond of pet names. He had been carefully considering what to call her based on past encounters and recent events, and had come up with something he quite liked. As he located his own shirt, he asked as casually as he could, "What would you like for dinner, Bunny?"

She stopped dressing herself with her trousers open at the waist. "What?" She was trying not to laugh. "What did you just call me?"

"Bunny."

"Why?" she asked, broad smile on her face.

He felt his skin flood with heat. "I rather like the thought of having a special pet name for you, is all."

"Does it bother you I haven't one for you?" she queried.

"Well, no."

"But 'Bunny'?"

"I have rather nice associations with you and bunnies, costumes and Bugs alike."

She smiled. "While I appreciate the thought, I'm not sure I could ever respond to that without laughing, Mark. I'm sorry." She looked thoughtful. "You could call me Bee if you really want to."

To use another man's pet name for his fiancée was somehow unnatural and wrong. "I don't think so."

She was fully dressed now and came close to him as he buttoned up his dress shirt. "To be honest," she said, placing her hands over his. "I like it best when you just call me 'darling'."

He smiled. "All right… darling."

She popped up on her toes and kissed him.

………

Despite the associations with the whole incident in said country, Bridget decided she was really in the mood for pad Thai, so he took her to the nearest Thai restaurant and ate so much of the stuff he thought he might burst. His mind kept going back to Abnor, Jim, and every other past boyfriend she'd had. In the end though (he told himself) they didn't really matter. After all, she'd chosen to accept his proposal, not Peter's, not Abnor's, and not any other proposal she might have gotten over the years…

"Bridget," he began, startling even himself, "have you ever been engaged before?"

She was dabbing the corner of her mouth with the cloth that had been on her lap. "Hm. Yes. Once before. Shortly after I met you, actually."

At his assuredly devastated look, she began to laugh, and continued explaining. "I was five, I had just begun primary school, and Ian Betancourt asked me to be the mommy to his stuffed teddy bear. I was overjoyed and I said yes. It was, after all, a pretty nice teddy bear."

Mark couldn't help himself. He laughed.

"Ian is probably devastated to this day because my parents moved us to Northampton and took me away from my little family." She sat forward in her chair, reached for and took his hand, becoming slightly more serious. "Mark, there is nothing about my past relationships that will ever change my present and future feelings about you. I mean, you're welcome to ask about them—but you should not feel threatened by the Abnors, the Jims and even the Ians of my past."

He squeezed her hand, suddenly feeling a little cheeky.

"So how many were there, exactly?"

"How many?"

"Boyfriends. How old were you when you started seeing your first boyfriend? Did you sleep with him?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Mark, _really_."

"You said to ask. Why did you split up? You wanted to go to the Wham! concert and he didn't?"

Her surprised look turned into a smile. "I just thought of a pet name for you. Nutter." She then leaned forward and gave him a thoroughly fantastic and stirringly arousing kiss, causing him to immediately forget his enquiries and think only of her soft mouth on his, of undressing her again so that her bare skin was under his hands and pressed up against him…

This was unfortunate, however; they were still seated at the table at the restaurant.

When she pulled away, she piped up that she thought they should go now.

"Can we, um, wait a few minutes please?"

She grinned devilishly. "Sure. What were we talking about again?"

And then she winked.

_The end._

………

Note:

According to Wikipedia, thirty years is a pearl anniversary (at least in Britain it is).

Flowers is an honest to goodness English surname, and I recall seeing coasters for Flowers ale everywhere in Stratford.

_Crossing the Soul's River: A Rite of Passage for Men _is a real book.


End file.
